Fixing a Saw

Those years ago, I thought him desolate,
the old man in frost, fixing
a chainsaw by car light, battling
numb fingers; the fading patience
of those around was like the cold,
to be mastered or ignored.
That he’d catch his death was little more
than a child’s admonishment. There were other,
newer saws to fetch, to borrow.
No. I can still sense the gritting of teeth,
the beam catching his shadow
as he shifted on his coat.

He was old, stubborn, unreasonable,
waging war on the dark and a spring
the thinness of a hair.
No again. He was, as the headlights
died and he marked in his mind
the place where the last,
missing piece rolled,
a colossus.

Ted Mc Carthy is a poet and translator living in Clones, Ireland. His work has appeared in magazines in Ireland, the UK, Germany, the USA, Canada, and Australia. He has had two collections published, November Wedding and Beverly Downs. His work can be found on www.tedmccarthyspoetry.weebly.com